


A Life's Work

by jubah



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2013-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-23 23:56:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/932609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jubah/pseuds/jubah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dírhavel is only a bard of the house of Hador, but he too has a fate he must fulfill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Life's Work

**Author's Note:**

> This is more like a gigantic, elaborated headcanon post for a secondary character who always intrigued me!  
> Dírhavel is mentioned to be the original composer of the Lay of the Children of Húrin, which happens to me my favorite story from the First Age :) That, and his death during the Third Kinslaying, is the only canon information we have about him, all the rest is speculation.

Like other mortal men, Dírhavel doesn’t live anywhere close to the town center, where a beautiful palace for the Queen was built so swiftly that some say the mortal bricklayers borrowed elvish magic in raising it. He lives closer to the outskirts, with refugees from all over Beleriand — everyone in the Havens is a refugee from somewhere else — but the Sindarin he learned from his mother is paramount in assuring him a position in the palace. After some cajoling and persuading, he’s finally able to get a position at the royal library, where he can read through the accounts of his own exiled people, of the fall of the House of Hador, and of the deluge of Dór-Lomin.

“There is nothing!” he exclaims after weeks of reading through the beautiful manuscripts in Pengolodh’s library.

Dírhavel hadn’t even been born when his father helped the exiled lord Túrin escape from Dor-lómin after the killing of an Easterling lord. His mother says he was conceived on the run, before his father met the old lord Húrin. It was only much later, after bitter tidings from Brethil, that they chose to head for Sirion. But he had inherited from his parents his loyalty to their lords.

When he was a child, waves upon waves of elvish refugees arrived from Nargothrond, and then a few mortals from Brethil; the names of those lords are often spoken with fear or regret, even hate. Once in his youth, his father was entangled in a screaming match with one of the Haladin, who spoke evil words to Dírhavel upon hearing him sing old Hadorian hymns.

Dírhavel sets off to work. He leaves his house to travel about Sirion, talking to every mortal and elf he suspects may have known anything about the fate of Húrin’s family.

When it is not terrifying (Morgoth stops being the shadow of a powerful but distant king, and becomes a very real divine presence in his world), his search is thrilling and fun. One afternoon, he spends hours in silence, listening to a group of Nargothrond refugees argue whether lord Túrin was in love with Princess Finduilas, and if they had an affair. An angry elf suddenly appears from nowhere, threatening anyone who would soil his princess’ honor with gossip and reminding the crowd she was betrothed to the valiant Gwindor, whom she loved dearly. He declares Orodreth had taken Túrin for a lover and lost his wits for lust, and means to dramatically spit on the ground to finish his speech (an habit picked from mortals, no doubt) before another elf rises from behind the counter and hits him square in the jaw, cursing him in a language Dírhavel presumes to be high elvish.

A brawl ensues as he sneaks out, but in the week after he visits each of the elves who had spoken that night, and dutifully notes every detail they are willing to remember, from the words exchanged between lords to the name and smell of particular flowers. All information is noted, measured, compiled.

His biggest accomplishment is tracking down Andvir, son of Andróg, allegedly a former member of Túrin’s outlaw band. The man is old and weary, but with every encouraging word and prodding question, he unravels a story so complex and fantastic that Dírhavel can barely contain his excitement. Andvir confesses that his father was a rapist and murderer, and for a moment it seems as though he is going to break down and cry. Dírhavel is informed by the neighbors that Andvir himself never married, and though he had one daughter, she's never around anymore.

He grows attached to the old man, and though it hurts his conscience, he offers to leave Androg’s crimes out of the tale for his convenience. Andvir refuses with a vehemence that makes him fear for the old man's health. “No, no, no,” he says, “tell everything! These people know nothing; these elves care not. Write it down, tell everyone! I want them to know! I fought the Enemy too; I paid for my mistakes in orc blood, as did my father and Neithan. I miss it, boy — I miss Amon Rûdh. Though my father detested every pebble and blade of grass that grew there, I miss it so…”

Andvir eventually falls ill. Before he dies, Dírhavel sings him the Lay he has been composing: the full Lay not yet heard by any other. They laugh together when he is finished. After his death, Andvir’s daughter comes to mourn him and collect his belongings, but leaves Dírhavel his old sword — a rusty thing, but mean-looking. He has no idea what to do with this memento.

He returns to his parents’ house; by now, they have grown old. He sings the Lay for them too, and again at the festivals. People join him in some parts, cry in some others, and give him coins and other gifts. His neighbor tells him there was a child born in the northern district who was given the name of Húrin.

Dírhavel uses all his resources and charm to gain an audience with the queen and king. After years of work, he is old and his voice is no longer clear, but he doesn’t wish to entrust his life’s work to anyone else. He finally gains his audience by boldly announcing the bearing of news from the king's kin, and although some guards have the mind to throw him out, he's received by their majesties and some courtesans in the throne room.

He had seen queen Elwing once before, and she is impossible to forget. She is intimidating, beautiful and regal, but also distant and cold. Her face undergoes a swift transformation when she looks at her husband, or when either of them places a hand on her swelling belly, enormous already. When she smiles and her eyes soften, Dírhavel must look away to not to be taken in by the beauty of her. King Eärendil looks exactly as his father described the lords of their ancestors: broad and blond-haired, with the suggestion of a smile at his mouth and a hint of a frown on his brow. It is almost unsettling to see the soft yet apparent lines upon his face against the elvish grace of his countenance. He is a king of elves, and Dírhavel distantly wonders why he hasn’t made a move to lead his other, less favored people, and whether he has made the right thing by mentioning the king's kinship with the mortal house of Hador.

But the king smiles when Dírhavel, with crafty words and cunning use of rhetoric and poetry, criticizes the lack of accuracy and depth in any elvish work that dealt with the fate of men. His wife seems encouraged by his good mood and smiles, too. Dírhavel knows Master Pengolodh and the other scribes must be present, but if he stops to read everyone’s faces he knows he will be distracted and nervous. His smile and voice must not falter, not now.

He continues speaking, and tells the king that while he has heard of the war of the Noldor and the kingdoms of the Sindar, no tragedy surpasses that of the children of Húrin, which makes mortal women weep and mortal men swear revenge. It is a bold statement, but luck is with him when king Eärendil chuckles, and promises a silver coin for each tear plucked from queen Elwing’s pale eyes with his lute.

But by the end of the tale, it is the king himself who is overcome with emotion, with a hand over his mouth and tears falling freely from reddened eyes. Dírhavel is no less surprised than pleased by this outcome, and feels as though he has achieved some secret, sacred task that had consumed his heart. He is sweating and his throat has a tingling ache; he bows, keeps his head down, and feels as if he is crying those tears himself. This is his reward. They are crying for Túrin and Niënor, but also for their house, and Morwen’s, and for Dor-lómin; they are crying for Tuor and for Lalaith, for the soldiers and slaves that had sacrificed their lives in vain. Dírhavel has no idea what shadows hide in king Eärendil’s heart, but knows he too cries for Andvir, and even for Andróg and the daughter of Larnach; even for Dorlas and his wife, and Hunthor, and for the bricklayers who built a palace for a king who doesn’t know the pain of their years.

Someone calls his name, and though he thinks that he should fear, he feels strangely at peace, as if something strung tightly around his chest had finally snapped and loosed. The queen thanks him with few but noble words before leaving, while another lord approaches him. This one looks so young, and yet so wise; he invites Dírhavel to join their table at dinner and sing more songs to entertain the majesties, a great honor he is pleased to accept. He says he will escort Dírhavel to a room himself, and when they join in a corridor, the elf introduces himself as lord Voronwë.

“My noblest feat was to guide Lord Tuor to Gondolin, master bard. I feel I must also tell you of something that had been to me no more than an oddity, that only now I understand. During our journey, Tuor and I saw a terrifying figure while crossing the Pools of Ivrin: a tall man, clad in black carrying a black sword, crossing the woods in insane pursuit. The whole forest rang with his cries. We did not understand at the time, and I had in fact forgotten about it until you sung of Túrin’s flight from Dor-lómin after his unhappy meeting with Morgoth’s worm. Now I know the sorry figure we saw, and though my heart is sad, I deem we could not have helped one with so heavy a doom.”

In his mind, Dírhavel always knows there is more work to do. Treasures like Lord Voronwë’s account would surface once his Lay becomes widely known. He expects people to be more open to tell what they didn’t feel like telling before. Perhaps the Lay of the Children of Húrin would eventually become only a section of a much larger Lay detailing the fate of the House of Hador; he already has enough material to compose of Lord Húrin’s wanderings, and the thought excites him. At all costs he must meet master Pengolodh before returning to his kin, before his family dies, before he is too old himself to write and sing. Dírhavel understands now he too has a fate, one he must fulfill until the end.

The end comes five years later, when the sons of Fëanor attack Sirion. Dírhavel dies in the year 538 of the First Age, Andvir’s rusty sword clumsily broken by his side.

**Author's Note:**

> I relied so much on Margot and Kate that this text would never be here without them, thank you both so, so much!!!


End file.
